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Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

A TRUE SELF

B eatrice stirred in her sleep, feeling a slight swaying motion that seemed to come from deep within her. She remained still for a few seconds longer, her consciousness gradually shifting from the fog of sleep to the more tangible reality in which she found herself. A long moment passed as Beatrice struggled to form a coherent thought, her mind still foggy with sleep and confusion.

In that moment between sleeping and waking, Beatrice felt utterly disoriented, unable to account for the soft swaying motion that shook her gently. Distant sounds drifted into her mind, not helping to clear up the confusion but increasing it. She heard carriage wheels upon a dirt-packed road, the call of a bird as well as the howling of the wind.

Blinking her eyes open, Beatrice was blinded by light, its brightness like a painful stab. She groaned, her hands moving to shield her eyes, and in that moment, she finally realized that she was not in her bed at home.

On swift wings, the events of the previous day and night returned, and her eyes flew open once more. A moment later, Beatrice surged upward when she realized she had slept with her head in her betrothed's lap. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I—" Her breath came fast, and she tried very hard not to meet her betrothed's eyes, her cheeks ablaze.

Charles, though, chuckled good-naturedly. "I am to be your husband," he said lightly. "Is it not my responsibility to ensure that you sleep well?"

Lifting her gaze tentatively, Beatrice found Charles grinning at her. As sensitive and kind and earnest as he was sometimes, there still was a bit of a devilish streak in him.

Beatrice rather like that.

Still, the reminder of their impending nuptials brought something else to mind. After all, a wedding implied a wedding night, did it not? When she had been set to marry Mr. Carter, Beatrice had been uncertain if her father's old friend would have insisted on consummating the union. Indeed, it had been a shuddering thought, and Beatrice was quite relieved to be rid of it. Yes, she did feel more at ease with Charles, but he was a stranger as well. They barely knew one another. Would he insist—?

"Would you tell me more of your sister?" Charles inquired as the carriage rumbled onward. "She sounds like quite the intriguing girl." Another teasing grin touched his face.

"You first," Beatrice insisted, welcoming this new lightness between them. "After all, I already spoke to you of Francine yesterday."

"Very well," Charles relented, tapping his chin with the forefinger of his right hand as he contemplated what to say. "I have a younger brother as well as younger sister. My brother, Henry, is three years younger than me and while I love him dearly, I rarely understand him."

Beatrice laughed. "Why's that?"

Charles shrugged. "Because… Because he never seems to stand still. Wherever he is, he's quickly bored or eager for a new place to discover." He scoffed good-naturedly. "Quite honestly, only looking at his life exhausts me."

"My sister and I are quite different as well," Beatrice volunteered, suddenly remembering that Eugene—Lord Strumpton!—had never spoken to her like this. "Sometimes, she sits very still, and I wonder what goes through her mind. Then later, I see her sitting at her easel, paintbrush in hand, her teeth dug into her lower lip, a look of utter concentration on her face as she paints." She sighed. "And she paints beautifully, not necessarily what she sees or what others see, but sometimes simply what could be."

"She sounds like a truly marvelous little girl," Charles replied, a deeply affectionate smile upon his face. "I cannot wait to meet her."

"I know she will be fond of you," Beatrice replied, remembering Francine's questions about her new friend . She paused. "I shall miss her. Ever since the day she was born, we have not been apart." A pang of sorrow touched her heart, and Beatrice thought herself a fool to not have thought of this earlier. After all, marriage always brought on a new life, a life that would not see her live side by side with her sister.

"I suppose it will not be the same," Charles admitted, a kind expression upon his face as he dipped his head a fraction to peer into her downcast eyes. "Yet she will always be your sister, and she will always be welcome in our home."

Beatrice found a glimmer of a smile as she looked at him. "And what of your sister?"

"Her name is Lizzie." Love shone in his eyes, and yet Beatrice thought to see a touch of sadness. "She's not well," Charles finally said, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. "She was born with a weak lung, the doctors said. They prophesied she would not live long."

Beatrice gasped, the thought of losing Francine crippling. She could not imagine how Charles's family had taken this news. "I'm so sorry."

A brave smile came to Charles's face. "Yet she beat the odds," he declared triumphantly. "They gave her three years. Today, she is twelve, and she is still with us." He cleared his throat. "Yet cold climates are not good for her. That is why my family left England over ten years ago."

"Then why did you come back now?"

"As a peer of the realm, my father has certain responsibilities," Charles explained. "He often went back on his own. Yet this time, we all wished to accompany him. Lizzie has been fine lately, and so we brought her along. Yet the moment she worsens…" He swallowed hard. "In any case, we never planned to stay long." As the last word left his lips, his brown eyes sought hers. "Now, we need a new plan."

Beatrice exhaled slowly. "Will you stay here even if your family leaves?" Oh, she had never thought of the possibility of leaving the country, having to bid her sister farewell for perhaps months or even years at a time.

"You are my family now, too." Holding her gaze, Charles nodded. "We shall find a solution. I would never dream of taking you away from your sister."

"And I would never dream of taking you away from yours," Beatrice replied, surprised by the respect and compassion that seemed to come so naturally to Charles's family. They truly did not seem to care about society's rules or about how things were generally done. They made choices on their own, based on their own dreams and wishes and hopes, always respectful of one another.

With each word they spoke, Beatrice relaxed, even enjoyed herself, suddenly feeling free to be herself. There was no longer any need to pretend. It seemed what Charles truly wanted was to get to know her, the true her, not the girl she had always portrayed to society.

It made Beatrice wonder if perhaps agreeing to marry Charles had not been such a bad idea after all. Most marriages were based on other things than love. And perhaps friendship and kindness promised a grander future than reputation and fortune. Perhaps, one day, they could be happy.

It was a thought that warmed Beatrice's heart, and she held onto it with all her might.

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